Night smothered the Valterra estate, thick and heavy, hiding everything—the gardens, the walls, even the sky itself. The storm had passed, but the air still felt restless, wet earth and smoke drifting on the wind.
Elara moved along the balcony outside her room, her dress catching the damp. Sleep wasn't going to find her tonight. She kept seeing flashes from the forbidden room—Alessio's eyes, cold and sharp, that ledger, those photos, the ugly truth about her father. Her anger and grief tangled tight inside her, but even underneath all that, she couldn't shake this pull toward Alessio. It didn't make sense, but it was there—dark, magnetic, impossible to ignore.
Suddenly, a loud clatter snapped the quiet. It came from the main gate, too sharp to be anything ordinary. Every instinct in her screamed, get back inside. She stepped toward the door, but before she could reach it, the balcony door flew open.
Two men, faces hidden under masks, rushed in—fast, silent, armed. No hesitation. Elara's heart slammed in her chest, but she moved. Years of wary living had taught her to react. She ducked away from one, barely dodging the swing of a gun. Her hands flew up, claws and nails, fighting for space, for breath—but there were two of them, and they had her.
One grabbed her shoulder, spinning her around. She kicked and scratched, refusing to make it easy. A knife flashed up, catching the light. "Stay still, girl!" one hissed, voice muffled and rough.
Then everything exploded.
Gunshots split the night—fast, sharp, more than one. The man with the knife jerked, arm dropping. The second stumbled back, red blooming across his chest.
Alessio stepped out of the darkness. Black coat, gun drawn, eyes cold and clear as steel. He moved like he was built for this—each shot deliberate, each step sure. Elara barely breathed, watching him cut through the attackers without mercy. He didn't hesitate. He didn't miss.
By the time it ended, the masked men were sprawled across the balcony, not moving. Alessio stood over them, chest rising and falling, rain and sweat sticking his dark hair to his brow. The wind tore at his coat, making it flare behind him like wings. He slid the gun away and turned to her.
"Elara," he said, voice low, tight, dangerous. "Are you hurt?"
Her knees almost gave out. She nodded because words wouldn't come—her chest squeezed by fear, relief, and something more wild and electric. Alessio came closer, moving with that same locked-in confidence.
"You shouldn't have been out here," he said, his eyes searching hers. "Do you know what you just risked?"
"I—I didn't…" Elara stammered, still gasping. "I thought it was safe—"
"Safe?" He cut her off, stepping even closer, his presence all heat and thunder. "There's no safe here. Not for you. Not ever." His voice softened, just a shade. "But I won't let anyone hurt you. Not while I'm here."
Elara's throat closed up. She wanted to protest, to say she didn't need saving, that she could handle herself. But nothing came out. Instead, she felt it—gratitude, yes, but also something darker, hotter, far more dangerous. She wanted him, and she hated how badly.
He reached out, brushing a wet strand of hair from her cheek. The touch was gentle, almost careful. "Don't test me again," he said, so close she could feel the heat of him. "Not tonight. Not ever."
She parted her lips, but nothing came out. She just stared into his silver eyes—so much danger, so much obsession swirling behind them.
For one suspended moment, the world narrowed to just them, rain falling all around, the fountain below beating out a rhythm in the dark.
Then, impossibly, he leaned in until his breath skimmed her skin.
"I'll protect you," he whispered. "Even from yourself, if I have to."
Her heart hammered so hard it hurt. That promise—the way he said it—hit her deep. She'd spent her whole life believing in survival, secrets, staying invisible. But Alessio Valterra, ruthless and cold, had somehow made her feel something else.
Not safe.
Not secure.
But alive.
And even more dangerous, she wanted him to feel it too.
Before she could speak, Alessio straightened, the mask of control snapping back into place. "Inside," he ordered, voice biting. "Lock the door. I'll take care of the rest. Understand?"
"Yes," she whispered, her own voice shaking.
He turned and vanished into the night, his coat swirling behind him. Elara dropped to her knees on the balcony, adrenaline finally bleeding away, leaving her shivering, soaked, and way too aware of the storm raging inside her.
She was sold to the most dangerous man in the city. She had been saved by him tonight, and yet, in that act, a spark had ignited—one she could not control. One she dared not name.
A spark that threatened to consume them both.
And in the quiet of the storm, she realized something terrifying and exhilarating: she did not want it extinguished.